


The Day Time Stopped at St James’s Park

by nowstfucallicles



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Picnic, Post-Armageddon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 07:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19942804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowstfucallicles/pseuds/nowstfucallicles
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't remember asking for a picnic. But the one he gets is time-stopping, rather scrumptious and a thing of love.





	The Day Time Stopped at St James’s Park

It was when Aziraphale started nearing St James’s Park that he realized something wasn’t quite right. For one thing, there was the way time was working. Or rather, wasn‘t. The cars, the passers-by, even the birds, were moving slower and slower the closer he got to the park’s gates. Eventually life around him almost ground to a halt. There were just fractions of movement left, nearly indiscernible. A young lady had just dropped her coffee by the gate – it wasn’t likely to hit the ground before the end of the year. 

Remarkably, no one was taking notice. Everyone was going about their business as usual. That’s how Aziraphale knew he didn’t need to worry – it was obviously demonic work of a very specific kind. What was it that Crowley had said? _Meet you at the park, usual time. Thinking of trying something new._ It had been fairly innocent-sounding. Well, the devil and the detail…

He quickened his steps. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen Crowley in a long time. He had. And still there was a curiosity. An anticipation that was, perhaps, a touch too eager. Somewhat too familiar. Drenched in a strange tenderness that seemed hardly appropriate for a mere lunch with an old friend. Still, it was there, warming him as he kept walking deeper into the park, wondering vaguely what Crowley was up to.

He glanced around, slightly suspicious. There was no sign of Crowley. He did, however, spot some movement by the lake. The branches of an old plane tree were swaying lightly, as if it had been spared from the slowing down of time. And there was something else, too: in its shade, a table for two. There was silverware glinting and a pair of tall wine glasses. A large woven basket stood in the grass nearby. 

“What…”

“You like it?” Crowley was walking beside him now. Looking at the same thing, a grin playing across his features. 

“Depends on what _it_ is.”

The demon turned to Aziraphale, arching his brows. “What, did I slow you down, too?”

“No. But, this…?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the gramophone cabinet that stood by the table. A beautiful piece, probably a rarity. There was a handful of familiar-looking records as well, arranged charmingly. Crowley stretched out his arm and made a wide, somewhat dramatic gesture.

“Picnic.”

“Sorry?” Aziraphale looked at him.

“Don’t know why you’re surprised. You’re the one who came up with it.”

“Picnicking? Oh no. As much as I’d like to take credit for it, it’s a human invention, through and through. Unless you…” He glanced at Crowley suggestively.

“Not what I meant,” Crowley muttered. He took a few quick strides, strutting ahead of Aziraphale. “Course it was the humans. I just added the wasps. Well, added… I got them into it.” 

For a moment Aziraphale simply stood there, gazing at the scene. Smiling now, in spite of himself. It wasn’t looking any less inviting, up close. There were fine wafts of steam rising from the basket. Napkins fluttering on the table. The lake was just a few feet away, rippling lightly, unperturbed by the temporal anomaly. The air was filled with pale sunlight and green. Around them the city, rumbling nearby, its life slowed down but still happening, moving gradually, almost peacefully around them.

He met Crowley’s eyes and found the demon grinning at him.

“You do like it.”

“It’s…,” Aziraphale was reluctant to admit it, “a nice touch. How did you do it? The time thing, I mean.”

“Dialed down entropy. Just, all the way. As long as it stays like this, we have the whole place to ourselves.”

“Must require quite a bit of concentration, all this?”

“I think I’m a natural.”

Aziraphale gave a light shake of his head, still smiling. He walked up to the place and felt gently over the tablecloth. Smooth, blinding linen, matched with fine silverware. Even the table, a marvellous fin-de-siècle piece with its original set of chairs. It was all quite out of place. Indeed, glaringly so.

“Didn’t steal any of this, did you?” he asked.

Crowley shrugged, pulling back a chair for him. “No. Yes. Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. I might not have any heavenly duties, but I’m still obliged to --“

“It’s a loan, alright? It’ll all be returned in time.”

It might have been true. At least close enough. Aziraphale let out a small sigh. 

“Alright…” 

He sat down. Crowley was already pouring them an aperitif, an aroma of juniper and orange circling the table. There were scents coming from the basket as well, spicy, sweet, savoury, not just of one cuisine, but many. Mingling and mixing in a way that was decadent, almost audacious. Aziraphale swallowed. At times it still caught him unawares, the way his body would react to certain things.The impulsivity. Appetite. He had never told this to anyone, even though he had let something slip to Aristotle once, of all people. It could be a strange business, having a body. Even after all this time. 

He raised his glass, nodding to Crowley. 

“It _is_ rather nice,” he said.

“You know, angel…” It was the kind of nonchalance that made Aziraphale look up. “You’re not obliged to do anything, really. Not any more.” 

Aziraphale paused, then he took a small sip of his drink. He had a certain suspicion where this was going. “I know that’s what you think.”

“We haven’t heard from either side since Armageddon.” The demon was looking at him over the rim of his shades. “For someone who got himself fired, you’re still pretty hung up on the whole righteousness bit.”

“Well, for one thing, I am an angel.”

“ _Exiled_ angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile faded. “And you’re an outcast demon. But you don’t go around building children’s hospitals, just because you can. Just like I don’t go unleashing hellspawn creatures on people’s picnics. There is such a thing as principle.”

There was no reply. Instead Crowley lifted his hand in a lazy wave. A small whisper of static and then the music began to play, drifting from the wide, shimmering horn of the gramophone. A Bach concerto, unmistakable, quite lovely. Aziraphale kept watching him as the violins slowly rose around them. It was a good thing, probably, reminding him now and then. Lest he forgot that there were still rules in place. An order to things, even well past the End of the World. 

He noticed that Crowley was shifting in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth. And then it was there. Right there. It found Aziraphale, the way it always did, by flashing into his thoughts without much of a notice. With inevitable clarity. He sank back in his chair, allowing it, simply feeling it for a moment. Yes. There it was. Within the chaotic rhythm and hissing baseline of Crowley’s temper. Part of him. Crowley’s love. His longing. Perhaps Aziraphale should have gotten somewhat used to it by now. Perhaps it should not have felt like this to him any more, like the world’s axis tipping very slightly for a moment. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t something one could ever get used to. Not when it spoke to him as it did. Not when he found himself, in spite of everything, more and more inclined to – more and more willing to -- 

Aziraphale let out a breath he had been holding, and he smiled again. Rather too gently this time. Rather too delicately, he could not help it. He looked up, finding a glint of wariness behind Crowley’s shades. 

“Right,” Crowley said, sitting up. “Food…”

Suddenly there was a serving cart next to Aziraphale. Of a similar art nouveau style as the table and, like it, now laden with countless small dishes. There were truffle eggs and warm pogacha. Alsatian tart. Marinated green olives next to cheese soufflé, next to rice balls. A spectacle of cuisines. A richness of aromas that was blending with the park’s fresh scent. Aziraphale had to admit, it was fairly irresistible. Slowly he leant forward, taking it all in. 

“Go on then,” the demon gestured. 

All the dishes looked scrumptious – most of all perhaps the soufflé. Aziraphale took his time, starting with a small bite. It was light and airy, sprinkled with a wonderfully ripe parmesan. It made him hum in delight.

“For the record,” Crowley was sipping on his second aperitif, watching him. “I _could_ build a children’s hospital, if I felt like it. A real one with doctors. Anytime.”

Aziraphale nodded. “You could, yes…”

“I might just go ahead and do it. Prove you wrong.”

“By all means.” Aziraphale reached for his napkin. He was about to enjoy himself a little. “But from what I’m hearing, you’re still a little tied up at Westminster Palace. How are things going, by the way?”

Crowley made a vaguely discontendet face. “Oh great,” he nodded. “They’re going great. Almost there... just a couple more hearings, then it’s curtains. No encore, no deal. Brexit. It’ll take loads of stuff off my hands.”

“Perhaps someone… something is working just as hard,” Aziraphale was quite proud of the tone of innocence he managed, “trying to turn things around. Maybe bring about a second referendum?”

“Really?” Crowley gave him a long look. “You’d think _someone’d_ be quite busy building those children’s hospitals…”

Aziraphale stifled a grin, helping himself to some baguette.

“You really think about that sometimes?” he asked. “Doing something the other side would do? Simply because you can?”

“Wouldn’t be that weird.” Crowley seemed to consider it for a few moments. “We’ve always been freelancers, more or less. Both done some work on the other side.”

“But those were assignments. As opposed to… choices.”

“They were always choices, angel.”

Aziraphale didn’t protest this time, even though he felt very much in the right. There was a silence. Sudden, but well-practiced and with an overall pleasantness. The light had brightened around them, it was falling through the branches of the plane tree, reaching deep into the lake. Another concerto had began and Crowley poured them both a heavy Merlot. 

Aziraphale’s eyes kept wandering across the table. Seeking Crowley’s behind the shades, while the demon seemed to be watching him with quiet curiosity. It reminded Aziraphale once more that, while he could feel Crowley’s love – Crowley couldn’t sense anything in him. Never. Not even now. Not even this strange ignitable feeling. How scandalous it was. How riveting, to be feeling something like this. To have it stirred in his soul, something he had not been made for, but that was there, all too pointedly there. To have it roused in his body, by a mere glance, by something he had seen thousands of times before. By some moment that seemed tender to him just by being exquisitely ordinary. Just by sitting there, across from Crowley, knowing that he, too, was feeling something quite like this. That he, too, was finding it increasingly hard to stand it. To simply carry on. 

He took a drink of wine, his eyes flickering away from Crowley’s. Then he looked around. There was no indication of time returning to its normal state. The group of humans further down by the lake were still looking like baroque sculptures. Waterfowl were hovering in the air, frozen mid-flight. How much longer could something like this even be sustained?

The plates were gone from the table. Instead, an assortment of desserts started appearing, waved into place by Crowley. No less impressive than the dishes before, they were filling the air with sweetness. Sachertorte. Almond cookies. Eclairs. A sticky toffee pudding shimmering with gold. 

“All this...?” Aziraphale let out a quick breath. “You don’t even like dessert.”

“Never have. Never will.”

“Bit wasteful, isn’t it?”

The demon tilted back his head. “I don’t half-arse things. Not going to start now. You said you wanted a picnic and that’s what you’re getting, angel. A picnic in style.”

Aziraphale had already settled on the chocolate cake. He tasted it, a smooth, richly sweet flavour, and his eyes drifted shut. 

“Don’t think I ever said that,” he remarked. “Though I wouldn’t complain. This is _delicious_.”

“Right,” Crowley muttered. He turned his head, as if to view something at the far end of the park. “No. Well.”

Aziraphale lowered his fork. There was a flash of suspicion. 

“Is this… you’re not trying to tempt me, are you?”

“Tempt you – with this? To do what?”

“I don’t know. Old habits die hard, as they say…”

There was a faint groan from Crowley. Then a huff of laughter. “Believe me. If I was, you wouldn’t have to ask. _You’d know._ Right away.”

It wasn’t honesty. A half-truth, at best. In any case, it had been a long time since Crowley had tempted him in any way that counted. A green wave here. A sunny January weekend there. Tickets for an opening night. Nothing but trifles, matters Crowley could have arranged all by himself. But then it had always been that way, hadn’t it? Small favours. Bargains. A minor but continuous bending of the rules.

Aziraphale could feel it still. It wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t stop. His own love, within the ridiculous organic bustling of his body. Within his ethereal soul. And he could feel Crowley’s, as clearly as ever, a love that had outwitted Hell, darker than his own and yet of the same kind. He could feel it seek and yearn. Could feel it speak to him, even if it didn’t know it was. It had been speaking to him like this, again and again. For centuries.

He watched Crowley pour himself more wine, watched a slight wariness cross his features and settle there. Crowley… he needed to know. He needed something, somehow. An answer. Aziraphale was keenly aware what it was, what it had to be. He reached over, touching Crowley’s hand. Touching him there, slowly, and feeling a single, sudden hiss, something small and violent, just as he dipped his fingers into the hollow of his hand. He leant forward, moving even closer. Knowing that he needed to feel. To be felt, at least like this, bodily. A wide, dazed yellow filled Crowley’s eyes and Aziraphale could sense a surge of frantic hope, of wonder. Its force nearly pushed him back.

Then Crowley slid forward. Abruptly, seamlessly coming to life. He moved around the table, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm. He was looking out of sorts, looking strangely demonic all of a sudden, barely leaving Aziraphale enough time to get to his feet. It was too soon, too unhoped-for. Hundreds and thousands of years too late – aeons of restraint, of waiting. Of loving. They stumbled, knocking into the table, and for a moment it felt rather unceremonious to Aziraphale, a little crude, but then Crowley’s arms snaked around him, pressing him close until he swayed a little and then sank wholly against him. He buried his face against Crowley’s neck, quite astonished and somewhat overwhelmed by what it did to him. That deceptively soft spot, it was full of Crowley’s smell. A flood of familiarity, trust, a flash of something raw and corporeal. He was clinging to Crowley, while those arms tightened even more around him, and there were small drawling sounds by his ear, bits of noise, meaningless, arcane. He could feel Crowley, sharper, closer, more immediate than ever before. The low, rolling vibe of his love. Fingers running through his hair and then at last, something intelligible, something breaking away from Crowley, soft and hot:

“About bloody time…”

A sudden loud noise crashed into the silence. The sound of traffic, shouting. The world spinning back into its gear around them. A whole vibrant, bustling quarter coming to life. Entropy had gotten away from Crowley, as it seemed, and he made no attempt to reel it back in. His head was resting against Aziraphale’s, his face buried in his hair, their bodies feeling strangely inseperable. There were footsteps on the grass. Birds swarming across the lake. A cup, somewhere, hitting the ground. Aziraphale touched Crowley’s face, catching his eyes over the drooping shades. Wide, blazing yellow. For a moment he hesitated before pushing the glasses back into place. Before trailing his fingers across Crowley’s cheek. Before a single quick taste, barely a kiss, a single cheeky tilt, in the middle of time catching up with them. Crowley had barely parted his lips, too slow for once, but with a blatant tenderness, with a small fleshly breath that for a moment quite weakened Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s hands were sliding down his back. Letting go of his shirt. He had the slow, elated expression of someone who had shown all their cards and couldn’t quite fathom, nor entirely trust their luck. He took a small step back, then he caught himself and made a gesture towards the table. 

“Coffee?”

“That’d be lovely.” Aziraphale sat back down. He felt quickly over his tie, pulling his collar back in place.

He could still feel it, no less than before. Even that impulse, it was still there – to reach out. To make it felt. And he would. From now on, as often as he would get to, he would. 

Crowley pulled his chair around to sit next to him. Two double espressi stood in front of them, dark and heavy, in preheated porcelain. The demon waved his hand, strewing distraction in the general direction of the passers-by. 

“So…” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “A picnic…” 

“A picnic,” Crowley said. There was a slight pause. “Anything like what you had in mind?”

Aziraphale chuckled lightly, as if something outright brazen had been said. Then he gave Crowley a long look.

“Close enough.”

Crowley smiled at him. For a moment it seemed that he wanted to say something, but then he simply leant forward. Gazing at Aziraphale as if he had been the single most interesting thing in all of Heaven, Earth and Hell. 

They stayed there a little longer and finished their picnic. It was, as it turned out, quite an ordinary day at St James’s Park.


End file.
